There is a very large storm approaching.

I am sitting on my verandah, and there is a very large storm approaching. It's lighting up the evening sky. I appreciate its smell. And the heaviness of the air has gone too. You can hear its stomach battles: the retching gales that are of loads of water, and the sighs of dissipating queasiness. The rumble echoing through an expansive ribcage. The sky is a man struggling to hold onto his insides.

Perhaps it's pathetic fallacy. Or perhaps I'm a microcosmic replica.

String Theory

Say everybody is a piece of string. Those who reach their limit to learning have their reel cut from them and stop unravelling themselves. Because their connection to a wider perspective has been severed: through overbearing metanarratives or unhealthy obsessiveness over particular ideals. You are severed when you prevent yourself from learning. You try and meet with other reels of string, perhaps of the same colour wheel or same brand of string. Maybe you started unravelling at the same time and you take special pride in that. But one day, you're heading down the haberdashery aisle to go see Aunty Sue and you see another reel. A mountain of information. You wonder if it ever stops. Whether it's possible that it could just keep unwinding forever. Whether they'd be protected and soft at the centre, or rough and gritty. You hope that they unravel toward you. That you'd studied hard enough to impress them. You wonder whether you could extend yourself, give yourself a couple more yards on your legs that you aren't entitled to. And then a fear catches you like the plague. Bubonic. Small pox. The Black Death. What if you stop unwinding today, or tomorrow? Will that be enough in the end? And then you've been severed by a self-constructed metanarrative.

Or you could consider that particle physics stuff.

Messenger

I spent the evening chatting to a man who cannot get up. It must be terrible having your legs bound to your chair.

It's dark and all I can taste is Indian food.

Sometimes you just wanna curl up and cry. Or kiss a cute boy and forget about it. Jump ship and take a holiday. All of these things are ideas I have caught in my throat. Prospects that are never gonna make it past the cutting room floor. All I am is desperate for a reply. For someone to tell me that I'm not alone.

In Regard to "Oh Captain, My Captain"

That was an old post that never quite published. This is accidental and intentional metafiction.

Oh Captain, My Captain.

I hope to kiss you behind the boat shed one night. After we've stacked and washed the canoes. Hands still dirty. Stomachs full of pasta that we didn't make. You'll tell me about living in Baulkham Hills and how it helped you learn to tie your shoelaces. That you've been knotted ever since. Tangled. Roped up to something you're not quite sure about. You're piling things up on your head, and hoping that you won't drop them.

I have a spare hand you know.

We'll get in our favourite vessel and set sail, and you'll sing loudly to the lion king as I navigate by starlight. Hopefully we'll discover something. A sand bank or school of fish. I'm not fussy.

Vroooom

Last night I drove very, very fast. With intent. Not to get home. Or to get dead. Just to get... something. The faster I went, the closer I came to a realisation, but I couldn't make it. There were too many corners. And I was scared.